Sunrise Prophecy
by Alli Snow
Summary: Teyla knows it is true, because there is a story...


I am seven years old, curled up against the cold in a bed that is not my own. Tonight, I stay in the house of my friend Fielle. Tonight, my baby brother will be born.

No younglings, men, or women without children are allowed in a house where there is a birthing. Fielle explains that the entire process is fraught with magic and mystery, because, in all seriousness, how could a child - even one as small as a newborn - be expelled from… down _there_? Obviously, says Fielle, who is eight and therefore an expert in such matters, something is going on that they do not want us to know, a secret that will only be revealed to us on the night of our own first birthing.

I am not so convinced. I saw the look on Father's face before he left me in the capable hands of Fielle's oldest sister, and it was full of concern. Why would he be worried, I wonder aloud, if there is magic involved?

Because, sighs Fielle, magic can go wrong. It's a tricky thing. You don't control it, _it_ controls _you_. If you let it get away from you, it can cause terrible damage.

Darrah enters at that moment and informs us that it is time to sleep. Darrah is skinny and cross and promises that if we speak a word in the darkness, the Wraith will hear and will come and eat us up in our beds. Fielle squeals in fear at this, and then she giggles. The Wraith have not come in ten years. It is hard for children like us, no matter the stories told, to truly understand their horror.

Darrah is sixteen. She understands.

It is cold in Fielle's house, and seems colder after the lights are turned down. My small hand curls around the pendant at my neck as I listen to Darrah's soft, sibilant breathing and Fielle's gentle snores and the sound of the wind in the trees. I cannot sleep. I cannot even close my eyes, because when I do I see the pinched, anxious look on my father's face.

I am still awake when they come to fetch me, and I leap from my bed at the first blow to the front door. There is a scuffle and a curse in the darkness as Fielle's father and brother rush to take up arms, but then a voice calls to reassure them. It is Lada, Fielle's mother. She is a novice healing woman, not as wise as Charin, but strong and able.

Tonight, Lada looks tired and pale. She waves away the concerns of her man and her children and beckons to me. Only me. "Teyla," she says, her voice quavering. Lada and my mother are cousins, and close friends. "You must come with me. Put on your coat. It's cold out. That's a dear girl."

Fielle watches me with wide, frightened eyes, and Darrah whispers a prayer to the Ancestors.

It is then that I know the magic has gone wrong.

I am ten years old and my brother is named Coll. He is a strange child, serious when most his age are merry, contemplative while others laugh and play, and at three years of age he has never spoken a word. Lada maintains that the difficult birthing that brought Coll into the world damaged his mind, but Father and I know better. Coll might be different, but he still understands.

The others don't believe Lada either; Coll's strangeness is just another mark of his special destiny to them. There is a story among our people that has been told, says Charin, as far back as ?anyone living can remember, of the man that will save us from the Wraith. He will come from darkness, says the story, and his coming will be marked with pain and death. But he will have a connection to the Ancestors like no other, and he will slay each Wraith until not one remains to wake from their long sleep.

Whether there are other elements of the story that no one will share, elements that explain why they have decided Coll is their savior, apart from the circumstances of his birth, I do not know. Perhaps they are simply so desperate for hope that any source will do, even if it is only a too-serious child who cannot or will not speak.

I find Coll's oddities annoying, for they mark him and therefore our entire small family as different. And yet I love him just the same. I love him as my mother asked me to love him, and watch after him, and help him grow, all before she passed into the dark quietness of the Place After.

I spend this afternoon by the lakeshore with Coll and Meleth, who is Charin's man. The weather today is warm and so he does not suffer so badly from the constant ache of the joints. He watches me as I move in the proscribed patterns and nods his approval, or frowns in rebuke. "Good. Mind… mind your left foot there. Always mind your footing. Sweep with your arm, move it towards your body, and then away, smoothly, like the river flowing. No… not so stiffly, child. That's how _I_ may look now, with these old bones of mine, but you are young."

Meleth was a great warrior in his day. He did not fight the Wraith, of course, because the Wraith do not meet you as an equal on the field of battle. They simply snatch you from the sky, or strike from the shadows. But there were others who sought to take from us what little we still had, and Meleth helped pushed them back. He learned his skills from a wise woman who came from another world, and he had decided to share this knowledge with me.

It was Charin who suggested these lessons to my father. He did not like the idea. It was a conversation I listened to from the boughs of a favorite tree; unknowing, Charin and Father had gone to a nearby prayer stone to discuss my possible instruction.

"It is unusual," he said. "And I am not sure I like it. Teyla is young, and she is my daughter. Why not wait until Coll is older-"

Charin's voice was soft and strong. "This knowledge must be passed while Meleth is still able to share it. To wait even five years… I do not think it is wise. And this is assuming that little Coll has the interest to learn, and the…"

"And the capacity," said Father shortly. "My son is not a fool, Charin. You have looked at him yourself and you can see nothing wrong."

"Only that he does not care to run and play, swim and jump, as do other boys his age. Only that he does not speak. Tagan, dear, you must concede the possibility."

"Now you sound like Lada."

"Lada speaks with nothing but love for you and your children in her heart. As do I. I would see Teyla be a happy child for as long as she can."

She paused. There was a chill in her silence.

"But they are coming back. They always come back. Teyla is intelligent, and she is made of stern stuff. If Coll… if Coll does not, she may be the one to lead us after you go to the Place After, Tagan."

My father did not speak. He never would speak about dying, whether at the hands of the Wraith or from the ceaseless turning of time itself, as though by denying the possibility he could deny the reality as well. Charin must have taken his silence as consent, and the very next day Meleth took my brother and me to the riverbank.

"Watch," he said, assuming the simplest form, "and do as I do."

This was a year ago. Now I have all but mastered the movements, enjoying the feeling of peace and focus and balance they give me. Coll will even sit up and watch me sometimes, and the ever-present frown softens slightly as he looks on.

With a small groan, Meleth pushes away from his sun-warmed rock and walks closer to the water. I pause in my movements to watch as he picks up a length of driftwood, turns it over in his hands, and then breaks it into two nearly even segments. He hands them to me.

"You want me to… break it?" I ask, confused.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Hold them in your hands, girl. As you do the movements, hold them."

I examine the two lengths of wood with suspicion. "They will get in the way," I insist.

"No, Teyla. They won't. Hold them long enough and they become extensions of your own body, your own mind, and you won't even notice that they're there. But you must practice, girl, _practice_."

I grasp the two makeshift staves, still looking at Meleth doubtfully. It is beginning to occur to me that the fighting forms and poses he has taught me over these past seasons was merely preparation for this, and for a reason I cannot fully grasp I am a little disappointed.

Meleth simply returns to his warm rock, however, and motions me to continue. At his feet Coll holds up a twig in one pudgy fist, as though to say _look, I can do it as well!_

I continue my training.

I am thirteen now and we are hiding from the Wraith, Father, Coll and me, hiding in the forest beyond the edge of home, breathing quietly through our mouths, muscles trembling with the readiness to run.

Nobody saw a ship. Nobody heard the dull buzzing that heralds their approach. And yet with frightening certainty I knew that they were near, the monsters, the murderers, the scourge. And so I took my brother by the hand and ran to Father and told him.

He believed me. He knew no child of his would dare to lie about such a thing.

"They _are_ coming," I whisper now.

He puts a warm hand on my shoulder, and his touch is reassuring. "I know, Teyla. You have a gift. Charin has… she's told me a little about it."

"Then why is not everybody hiding?" I can feel myself close to tears now, and I am filled with terror and sadness and, above all else, frustration. Lada's family is somewhere in the forest as well, and Charin and Meleth and several other groups. But not everybody went. Some looked at Father with scorn when he called out his warning. My warning.

"They don't believe you," my father whispers. "Not because they think you're a bad girl, but because they don't want to believe. We've been left alone for so long. I think Jinto and the others would rather act as though there is no longer a threat. They hope that pretending will remake reality."

"They are the Wraith," says Coll. "They will come. They always come."

He speaks, sometimes. Enough to let us know that he can, when he wishes. His words, however, are never comforting, and Father holds him tight.

We wait there in the forest, wait for darkness to fall, wait for the Wraith to come or - as I would much prefer - not come. But the certainty still lingers there in the back of my mind like an unpleasant itch, a snatch of song that cannot be recalled, or a hunger that cannot be sated.

_Hunger._

_Feed the Hunger._

_Take them, take them, use them up, take them all, all you can, watch them run, chase them down. So much fun, good, watching them run, good, good, but not as good as taking them, feeding the Hunger, pushing it down for another time, until the next time you must feed. Hunt, take, use them all up and then move onto the next, the next, the next hunting ground, the small prey. Run, run! Good good good-_

Somebody screams.

I think for a second that it is me, for the voice in my mind is so fierce and terrifying, and then I know nothing but the cool damp night air, the smell of the soil, the sting of branches against my skin as I run. My father shouts after me to stop, to come back, and he tries to follow but he is encumbered by Coll, who he cannot leave to fend for himself.

I smell the fires before I see them.

There are more screams, disembodied at first, and then I see an Athosian figure running through the trees, and another, and more. It is harder for their dark light to find you under the canopy, I remember Charin saying.

_Charin_. I am overcome with concern for my friend; I can see her clearly in my mind's eye, stirring her great pot of soup while I curled by her hearth and drew pictures of the trees, the animals, and the Ancestors, or humming along as I sing the old songs with a child's guilelessness. Sometimes, before Coll was born, Mother would be there as well.

I jerk to a stop, trying to remember where Charin and Meleth went to hide, and then bolt in the most likely direction. I have to make sure that they're safe-

"Teyla!" I almost run into the young man Halling, Jinto's son. He had not come with us. Now his face is smudged with soot and streaked with something else - blood, perhaps? "They are here!" He bodily turns me around. "We have to get away."

I can hear it now: the drone, the sound that was described to me as the voice of an angry insect, the heavy reverberation that makes your teeth ache. They are above us, somewhere. "Was anybody trapped?" I demand, pushing Halling's hand away. "Is anybody still there?"

His expression is grim. "We tried to run in many directions. They will get some of us, but not all."

My stomach twists at his words _they will get some of us_. Like he's allowing it - like he's just giving up! "They may not!" I yell at him, knowing my voice is lost inside the chaos around us, knowing that what I say is a lie. The Hunger demands. The Hunger owns everything that they do. They will not leave unsatisfied tonight.

"Come on," says Halling, his voice full of sorrow. "Here is your father. We must go."

I am fifteen and we are moving camp. It is a slow and cumbersome process, yet it is one we undertake every few seasons. When I was young the moving went slowly: the unattached men and the fittest women would go first, taking the heaviest bundles, and then the families with children of a useful age, and we would settle in our new spot before helping the old, young, sick and infirm make the journey from the old grounds to the new.

These past years things have changed, and we all move as one, carrying our world on our backs and in our carts, looking over our shoulders at what we are leaving behind, and what may follow after us.

"If the Wraith wish to find us," says Fielle quietly, "this will not stop them."

I scowl at her. "Hush!"

"Teyla is right," says Halling, walking on Fielle's other side. "That kind of talk is not helpful, my dear. Moving between the hunting seasons may fool those who would hunt _us_. At worst we get a change of scenery. And at best, lives are saved."

Whether or not he is defending me, Halling's tone is gentle and warm, and it is Fielle's hand he takes in his when we come to rough terrain. At first I try to pretend I do not see this, and then I decide that there is no use in such an act. My two friends are in love, and Lada looks on happily from her cart.

Making my excuses, I leave the couple to each other and fall back to walk alongside my father. Coll follows just behind us, stopping along the way to pick up unusual stones or examine a particularly tall tree, and sometimes I catch him humming one of the songs Charin taught him. My brother is rather tall now, with hair the same shade as mine and eyes as wide and clear as our mother's. He is healthy, he is outwardly well, but still he holds himself apart from all of us.

Perhaps because everyone else holds themselves a little apart from them.

"Why Coll?" I ask softly, so my brother cannot hear me. "Why do they think he will be the one to save us?"

My father gives me a wry, sideways look. Perhaps he is wondering why it took me so long to ask, and indeed it is a question that has followed me for many years. I always thought to discover the answer myself, but now Coll is eight and I have learned nothing more. "It comes from a story, Teyla. You need put no stock in it."

"But I know the story. How he will come from a night of… blood, and death."

Father is quiet. Finally: "Yes. That is how the tale begins."

"And he will have a connection with the old ones like no one else. And I've heard some of the people - like Amar, I've heard him say that that's why Coll is so quiet and acts so strange sometimes, it's because he's communing with the Ancestors."

"Is that what _you_ think?"

I bite my lip and think this over. "It would be nice, I suppose," I murmur. "I would like to know there is a reason for… for all of it. And sometimes there is something so strange about the way he looks at me. At the world. But… no, I suppose I don't believe the story."

We walk in silence for a moment, and I listen to the crunch of the rocky soil beneath our feet and the muted voices of those around us.

"Stories aren't meant to tell the future," says my father at length. "Sometimes they help to guide our path, but not always. Did Charin ever tell you that there was a story about me?"

"You!"

He grins. "Yes. A very simple tale, really. There is a woman of brown hair and blue eyes and she is far from home. Lost in the woods, or in a desert - there are variations. It begins to rain. It begins to grow dark. She is all alone and frightened. The rain falls faster. The water rises. Suddenly a river swells its banks. A flood is coming. The beautiful maiden will surely be drowned. Only she isn't. A man, a mysterious stranger, swoops out of the darkness. He looks almost like a part of the darkness himself, with dark skin and dark hair, and at first the woman is afraid. But the man saves her life. He shows her how to swim to safe harbor, a place where her people will find her when they return from trading in the city. He smiles a white smile at her, and then he vanishes, never to be seen again."

I stare at him, enraptured, although puzzled by the end of his tale. "You said the story was about you!"

"And I said they don't predict the future, or tell you what to do. I saved your mother that night, it's true. But in taking me in and making me one of her people, in loving me and giving me you and Coll, she saved me as well."

Although I know he loved her very much, something inside squirms to hear my father talk about anyone in this tone… the same tone that Halling used with Fielle. I cast one last look back at my brother, my poor brother who can do so little and yet will have so much expected of him, and then I drift away. Towards other friends, other members of the extended family who call themselves _Athosians_. Carliss, mother of Marta; Nevil and Amar, brothers to Juna, who has bound herself to Eammon; little Sade, whose parents were both killed in the Wraith attack during my thirteenth year, and her guardians, Renny and Loris. All of them and more. All of them dear to my father's heart, and mine. I find that I love them, although not in the way that Father loved my mother, enough to leave everything he knew behind so he could be with her. Not in the way that Halling loves Fielle, with a brightness that shines through the roughness of his face.

Such affection, I am sure, comes only once in a generation, and so it will never come when expected.

I'm eighteen, and I am too young to die.

The specter of death hangs over all of us, all the time. Life is fraught with risk: the animal you hunt may charge, the boat you fish in may capsize, the fire you tend may attain a life of its own, and the child you give birth to may be born too early, or too quickly, or with his body turned wrong-way in your womb.

And the Wraith may come, taking you up into their ships with their dark light, or paralyzing you with their weapons and dragging you away to feed.

The Wraith have come, again.

Not to Athos; I can only pray to the Ancestors that they are safe at home. I am on a planet known as Haven, with my father, Coll, and Fielle, with the intention of trading for chemicals to liven the earth we plant in. I have also brought the staves Meleth bequeathed to me, hoping to find a fine woodworker to create a similar pair for my brother. But no sooner do we arrive at the market than my mind seems thrown into chaos; I catch my breath, I feel the hunger.

Fielle notices my body go rigid. So does Father. "Wraith?" he murmurs, looking around the busy market square.

Unable to speak, I simply nod. I'm older than I was the first time, and unfortunately familiar with this sensation, yet somehow it's worse this time. I close my eyes and seek focus. "More," I whisper, aware that a few overhead words could turn this benign crowd into a panicked mob. "More than has come to Athos during my lifetime."

We are already edging towards the large gates that mark the egress to Haven's market. We must get ourselves clear of the throng before we warn others, or we might well be trampled in the melee. Fielle puts an arm across my shoulders and leans towards Father. "Haven is much larger than our village has been in many decades. If they come to feed, they will likely need a larger force."

"Of course they come to feed," says Coll quietly. "It's what they do."

Father goes up to one of the gate sentries; I stand with my brother and Fielle and watch as he goes through the motions of explaining and warning. The sentry casts a nasty look in my direction, and then a far more disgusted look at my father, who is getting more frustrated now, visibly angry, and then two other guards come over. From the expressions on their faces it is evident that the Wraith have been long absent from Haven… or else these men simply do not believe.

_They hope that pretending will remake reality._

Sneering and calling us vulgar names, they corral our small party outside the gate threshold, and stand there to bar our re-entry.

And then they come.

Ships, many of them, spear the evening sky like great silver blades. There is a moment of horrified silence in the square before the screaming begins.

I catch things in brief glimpses only, flashes in front of my eyes even as the Hunger roils in my mind.

Bodies colliding.

Hands pushing without restraint or care.

Feet kicking out.

And then in a flash of dark light the monsters are there, faces grotesque and blind, hands ever searching, seeking out fresh life. The crowd surges away from them - there is nowhere to go - there is no room in the enclosed square. There are only the two small gates - where we stand, and on the opposite side of the market - but the great throng is in panic, not thinking, only reacting, only trying mindlessly to _get away_.

My hands itch for the staves in my pack, slung over my right shoulder. As though he knows this, Father reaches out and touches my shoulder. "They did not come through the chappa'ai," he intones, using the strange word for the Ancestors' portal that he brought with him from his home. "We should get there, and quickly, get home, warn the others to go to ground."

Fielle nods her vigorous agreement, no doubt thinking of Halling and Darrah.

Coll apparently disagrees.

With our father's attention elsewhere, he darts into the crowd. The screaming, thrashing crowd. The crowd that the Wraith use as their banquet-table.

My brother darts between a voluminous skirt and a hanging tapestry, and he vanishes.

I do not remember leaving my father and Fielle there at the gate; suddenly I am pushing the tapestry out of my face, and slipping past the owner of the skirt, who is screaming as though her hair is on fire. _Stupid woman_, I think, with both scorn and shame. _Sneak. Hide. Don't stand there with your mouth open, asking them to eat you._

The Wraith need no invitation.

A man's voice shouts from the direction of the far exit, and like the sea tide the crowd begins to push in that direction. At least some are regaining their senses in the midst of this horror, but not quickly enough. An otherworldly sound tells me that the Wraith are using their fearsome weapons, the sticks of pale blue fire that make the victim drop to the ground as though dead.

They are not truly dead, though. Not yet.

I do not bother shouting out Coll's name; even if he could hear me over the melee, he would not answer. I know this instinctively. For eleven years he has shown scant interest in the people around him, and only slightly more notice of the world he inhabits. He has been docile, if sometimes unsettling. For him now to run into this danger with such intent…

It is a sign from the Ancestors.

It comes together, in a way. My father was drawn to my mother, like in an old fireside tale, and she produced me and Coll. I am the weapon, honed by Meleth's teachings, sharpened by my fear and my anger - yes, anger - against this menace. Coll is my beacon.

_Lead me where you will, little brother._

I am certain that I see a scrap of red fabric - red is Coll's favorite color - but then I see something else, something that stops me in a second, my body cold, my mind reeling.

The Hunger voice calls him _leader, lord, master_. I have never seen one of his kind before, not with my own two eyes, yet I know what he is. He is one of those who are not blind, although his eyes are small and filled with need, his skin pale, his hair long and starkly white across his shoulders as he feeds.

It is in an alcove, a small patio leading off the square with little room to move and even less light. The _leader lord master_ doesn't see me at first, intent on his current victim, laying supine on the floor, and on the others: a young man with dark hair and a pale face, a crying young woman and, in her arms, a squalling baby. The woman looks down at the figure on the floor, the person whose life is being drawn from him, and shudders and holds the infant tighter. The young man grimaces and tries to shield the woman from the sight.

The _leader lord master_ Wraith, while kneeling, is between them and the only exit off the patio. He will take them next if I do not intervene.

The child in the woman's arms is small, so small. I can see one pale pink fist emerge from the swaddling clothes, striking out into the cool evening air.

No Wraith can be allowed to take a baby's life, a precious new life, no matter the alternative. It is sacred, pure, untouched by the harshness and pettiness of life, and it must not be tainted by these monstrosities.

The staves are in my hand, and I strike.

The leader notices me an instant before my first blow lands, and for a second he merely lies on the ground next to his expiring victim and stares up at me. I have surprised him. How long has it been, I wonder, since anyone has done such a thing?

_Too long_.

He is up; I strike again, but this time he parries the blow with one hideous long-fingered hand. His eyes are laughing. He lunges.

The creature's strength is impressive, and I am rather shocked to find that my reflexes are better. I duck out of his reach - a low, sweeping motion that Meleth took pains to perfect in me - and aim a strike to his knees. This would be a vulnerable spot for many. Not for him.

He hisses - in anger, perhaps, or amusement, but not in pain, and brushes me away as casually as one might shoo an insect. The ground comes up to meet me, hard, but I push myself up again, hardly breathing, letting the staves fly.

This time he does not deflect; the sticks catch him across the face and his head snaps back. The hissing sound comes once more - definitely anger, then - and he swings those deadly hands again.

Block. Thrust. Spin. Duck. It goes on, and on, until I wonder if I am not simply reliving the last few moments of my life over and over. I know I cannot beat him on my own. I know I am merely buying time, and that there is little I can do besides give this small family a moment to say goodbye.

A young woman with two wooden sticks cannot defeat a Wraith.

I wonder if he will feed on me when I am defeated, if he will put his killing hand on me here, on Haven, or wait until he has returned to the comfort of his terrible vessel.

_Please, Ancestors, Fathers of Light… if it happens here, do not let Coll see_.

No sooner have I formed this thought, well aware that my strength is flagging, failing me, than I realize that the _leader lord master_ is no longer engaged in the fight. He steps away, and there is a flash of annoyance in the dark pits of his eyes… directed at something else, not me.

I am breathing hard, favoring my left leg - I don't recall injuring it in the fight, but it must have happened - and still half-crippled by the fear that comes from battling a nightmare. The creature may not have the time to take my life force for his own, but surely with a stroke of one powerful hand he could take my life.

He does not.

It is not compassion; the Wraith have no understanding of mercy, and that is what makes them what they are. Rather - and I sense this in my bones - the Wraith lord before me simply has other priorities. I am one young woman with two wooden sticks, chattel that will not consent to be taken as so many others are, and I am not worth the bother. Something calls the lord, a signal that I cannot hear, and yet I sense its presence. He is being called away.

With one last, ferocious smile he steps away, back towards the exit, and I stumble to stand between him and the helpless trio should he decide to take them captive.

He does not. In a blink the dark light has come for him, and he is gone.

Many things happen at once. There is a great cry from the market square, a sound of relief and despair, which tells me the other Wraith have followed their master into the sky… and that some Havenites have been taken as well. The woman standing behind me in the alcove - she cannot be much older than Fielle - holds her child to her chest and drops down beside the man on the floor, the man the Wraith was feeding on when I interceded. "Toran, do something," she demands, her voice quavering. The pale-faced young man stares at me in amazement for a long moment, and then kneels down on the victim's other side. Trembling fingers go to his neck and wrist, no doubt seeking the points of life, some sign that there is still a mind within that withered husk, but the young man sags and shakes his head and says, "He is gone, Alma," and the young woman bursts into tears of rage and loss and-

"Coll," I gasp, furious that I have lingered, that I forgot him for even a short time.

I turn to go, to run back into the now-subdued crowd, but the man called Toran jumps up and grabs my arm. "Wait! Who are you? You saved my sister, her child… you actually _fought_ the _letumea_, the Wraith… don't leave us!"

I shake off his grip. "My name is Teyla!" I shout the words in anger and frustration, and to be heard over the turmoil in the square and Alma's sobs. "I come from another world… I'm sorry, I must go, my family may be in danger, and… Fielle, oh no…"

Pushing back into the confusion, aware that Toran is following me, I fear what I might see. The frightened expressions of those spared, the tears and screams of those whose loved ones were taken… these are sights I am too familiar with. They are the visions that the Wraith leave behind. What I fear is my father's broken body, Coll's sightless eyes, Fielle's beautiful form reduced to a dry and lifeless shell… and these images play on and on behind my eyes until I feel ready to scream-

"Teyla!"

It is not Toran, although he is still there. It is Fielle, thank the Ancestors, and she throws her arms around my neck and adds her fervent thanks as well.

"You ran off, and then your father and I… but we got separated… I couldn't see you at all, and then I saw one of them, and it was coming near me - I just turned and I ran, I ran Teyla, I was so scared. I just kept imagining never seeing Halling again, and Mother and… and are those your staves? Teyla, did you try to _fight_ one of them?"

"She didn't _try_," interjects Toran, startling Fielle with the nearness of his voice. "She did, she did it, saved me and my sister and her baby daughter, the _letumea_ had killed her husband and would have taken us next, but, but Teyla saved us-"

I ignore him. "Fielle, did you see Coll anywhere? Or Father?"

She appears grim but determined. "No Teyla. I didn't. But the Ancestors only know where Coll ran to, and there are many people here… so many people. We'll look, Teyla. We'll find them."

Half a year has passed and I sit in the shadows with my back against the rock wall, my heels digging furrows in the earth. I have always liked this place: it is cool in the worst heat of the summer and a place of shelter in storms, and so in whatever season we find ourselves camped nearby it is always a welcome sanctuary. When I was very young I would play here with my friends, and we would pretend that we were in the old City of the Ancestors.

Not long after my mother died, Father had given me a necklace, a strange trinket he'd found on another world. A couple of seasons later the necklace had fallen off while Fielle and I had romped through the caverns, and I have never been able to find it since. I had come here today to look once more, but upon arriving I discovered I did not have the energy. I did not have the strength. And so I sit here by myself, looking up at the pictures.

The pictures on the walls show the cycle that is written on our hearts. They do not all sleep, and the ones who remain awake are eager to display their power. They will come again and again, until the next great awakening, and when that happens they will come and never leave.

Unless…

The sound of footfalls heralds someone's cautious approach. I sigh at this invasion of my solitude, yet I knew from the moment I left that it was only a matter of time. "I am here, Fielle."

My friend appears in the archway, silhouetted by the morning light behind her. Her eyes look a little tired and watery, as though she has been crying. "Thank the Ancestors," she mutters, shuffling closer. "When we all woke this morning and couldn't find you…"

"I needed some time to myself."

Fielle slides down the wall, sitting next to me with a little _oof_. "Are you going back to Haven today?"

I shrug bleakly. "There's no point, is there? If there was anything to find, we would have found it long ago. If they escaped the culling that day, they would have found a way home by now. My father is dead," I say flatly, and then I wince, because telling it to yourself in silence is one thing and hearing your voice speak the words is something altogether different. "So is Coll."

Fielle is silent for a moment, staring down at her belly. "No bodies were found," she says finally. "We talked to every person in the square and no one remembered a dark-skinned man and a boy in red being among those taken."

"Memory is a strange thing when you fear for your life. Things get mixed up, displaced. It is easy to forget what you don't want to see." Despite this I can still see the body of Alma's husband lying on that fine tiled patio. He was only thirty years of age, yet when the Wraith was finished he looked like an old man long wasted by disease.

"We still don't know why the Wraith left so suddenly," Fielle persists. "If the pattern held they should have been there much longer. They could have swept the marketplace with their dark light and taken us all, set fire to the buildings, destroyed the land, but they didn't. Something drove them back to their ship. Something _scared_ them away. Teyla, what if the stories about Coll are true? What if he ran into the danger to save us?"

Suddenly my hands are shaking with anger and fear and I clench them tightly in my lap. "Fielle, stop. I… I have thought all these things myself. Over and over again - believe me. And even if everything you say is true, the fact remains that they're gone."

_They're gone._

We sit in silence for a long time. We watch the light from outside slide through the cave opening and crawl across the floor, and presently Fielle reaches over and puts one cool hand atop mine.

"I'm sorry," she says.

I nod shortly, not trusting myself to speak without breaking into tears. I remember Alma's hysterical display at her dead husband's side and I grimace. I refuse to be that kind of woman.

"You can remain with us for as long as you like," Fielle continues.

"No," I say quickly, grateful that my voice is steady. "I will do everything I can to help once the child is born, of course, but I've stayed too long. I'm going back to my own tent tonight."

"You will be all by yourself."

I manage a tight smile. "I will survive. And I meant what I said about the baby. Darrah told me you had decided on names?"

Fielle smiles down at the child within. "They are not very imaginative, I fear. 'Lada' for a daughter, or 'Jinto' for a son."

"Those are good, strong names," I tell her warmly. "Names of family and history." And, because I know she sometimes doubts herself, I add, "You will be a wonderful mother, Fielle."

She smiles at me now, her face transformed into the epitome of gentle, maternal wistfulness. "You will not be such a poor one yourself."

I raise my eyebrows, puzzled and yet thankful by the change of topic. "Do you know something I do not? Because I was there the same as you when Charin told us the… basics."

Fielle chuckles and nudges me in the ribs. "Yes, I'm sure you know the basics, and not only from Charin! But you know what I mean, Teyla. Toran left his people, followed you back here, just like your father did for your mother. He is in love with you… you must see that."

"I think he believes he is in love with me," I answer slowly. "I am gratified that he chose to join with us, considering how different Athos and Haven truly are. He is a hard worker, and kind and intelligent…"

"And handsome, don't you think?"

"But I cannot help but think that he should have stayed with his sister and her child."

"The family of Alma's man took her in," says Fielle dismissively. "They will both prosper on Haven, should the Wraith allow. Stop making excuses. Toran is here because he wants to be here, because he loves you."

When Fielle has her mind set on something it is impossible to dissuade her – even now I suspect she believes there is some arcane magic used in the birthing process – and so I simply shake my head, conceding the argument for the moment. I clamber to my feet and offer my friend an assisting hand. "You should not be this far from Halling and the others in your condition," I chide, pulling her up. "Just think… if the child started to come forth here in this cave I, not being a mother myself, would be unable to help! I suppose I would have to turn around and close my eyes until you were done!"

Another nudge in the ribs, although this one is more of a jab. "You would not dare!"

We speak in lighthearted tones during the walk back, but I can still feel the sorrow, cold and heavy, in my heart. I have had a long time to become used to the idea that Father and Coll are gone… and yet forever would not be long enough to extinguish my pain.

Somehow losing Coll is the worst. Folks like Charin, quietly approaching the twilight of their years, are an unmistakable oddity. Parents so rarely live to see their children grow – both Halling and Fielle have lost theirs to the Wraith during raids – that it has become an unpleasant fact of life. And of course living in itself is a danger. The Wraith did not take my mother, but she is gone all the same.

They told a story about my father, about a dark-skinned man who saved my mother from drowning. There are significant omissions from the true tale – the man returned with the maiden he saved, fell in love with her, and she gave him a daughter and a son – but the ending is too accurate. He has vanished, never to return.

Coll's story, however, was not over. It had barely begun. He was supposed to come on a night of blood and pain and connect with the Ancestors and save us all from the Wraith. He was supposed to be the hero, the savior of our people. Instead he was a strange boy who rarely talked and didn't fight, who did something senseless and stupid on behalf of people he did not know, who all but gave himself over to the Wraith and abandoned his people and his sister forever.

My anger is irrational. I know that. It does not make it any less real.

_Coll_.

It hurts to say his name, or even think it.

I am seven years old, running through the corridors of a Wraith vessel. It is dark and cold and my nose is filled with sickening smells: smells of blood, of death and perpetual rot. Everything I see has a faintly bluish tinge, hazy around the edges, but it is all still terribly real.

I am flanked by strange alcoves, shadowed and shrouded in some alien material, and from within these alcoves comes a tuneless, wordless cry of despair. Against my better judgment I stop running. I turn and look towards the voices.

Hands explode through the living web; hooked fingers rake the air in front of my face. I bite back a scream and jump away, but I cannot take my eyes off those pale hands, clutching and clawing… not threateningly but beseechingly, asking me for help.

That is what all the voices are asking, I realize.

_Help us. Save us all from the Wraith. Do not let us die like this._

The person in the alcove in front of me is my mother. Father is next to her. I want to help them, to pull them from their strange bonds and take them back home to Athos, but I fear what might happen if I reach out and take their hands. I'm so small and weak – what if _I_ am pulled _in_ instead?

Hating myself for my cowardice, I turn and run away.

But I cannot escape them, for they are all around me, reaching out of the shadows, calling for my help. Meleth and Lada. Halling's father, Jinto. Alma's husband.

Fielle, weeping quietly and calling for her child.

Coll, silent and staring.

There are others as well. Charin and Halling and Toran and so many others, all begging me without words, reaching out from the darkness. All I can do is run away, but wherever I go there are more. And more. And more.

"_Teyla._"

I turn the corner and stop short. For the first time I can see someone standing in the corridor with me, a man, tall and well built, wearing strange clothing – he looks at me with surprise and concern, as though he has been trying to find me inside this nightmare—

"_YOU_."

Behind me. A voice behind me. I whirl and this time I do scream, because after all I am only seven years old and standing there staring at me is a Wraith, one of the masters of their kind, and he is staring at me with venom and…

Is it possible?

In fear?

"_What are you?"_ it demands. "_How are you doing this?"_

Its face is like death and its eyes like dark pits. I can feel its hunger, raw and insatiable, tearing at me like a wild dog tears at the belly of its prey, all sharp teeth and hot breath. I remember the strange man in the corridor behind me and wonder if he will protect me from the monster, and then something turns around and I realize how silly that is. I am supposed to protect _him_.

None of this makes sense; I'm caught up in the voice of the Wraith and the voice of the man and then there is another voice, low and insistent, and—

And I wake with a gasp and a short defensive move to my back; in response Toran curses and groans and pulls away, holding his side. "For the love of the Ancestors," he wheezes. "You were having a nightmare. I was only trying to wake you."

For an instant I'm inclined to disagree with him; now that I'm awake, safe in my tent, my bed, Toran's warm body laying close to my own, what I just experienced doesn't seem like a nightmare at all. It seems instead like some marvelous insight that could change everything, and for the better, if I could only put it to the correct use. There was Mother… Fielle… a man… and a Wraith… and even though I was frightened of him I still had some power, something over him that…

I shake my head despairingly. It's gone now… fading away. Restless, I throw the blankets aside.

Toran looks up at me drowsily, still holding his ribs. "Is it time already?"

I smile tersely, pulling on a long jacket that belonged to my mother, stepping into a new pair of boots I acquired through our good friends, the Genii. "No, not yet. I'll come back and wake you."

"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice slurred and muffled with sleep. Many elements of Athosian life Toran has assimilated flawlessly. Early rising, however, is not one of them.

"On a walk."

Sunrise is still far off, and most of the tents are dark and silent. I stand in the center of our camp, breathing the cool, fresh air into my lungs, and close my eyes. I seek to open my mind, extend my senses, feel out into the darkness… and no frenzied hunger answers my call.

Good. My dream, at least, was not prophetic.

Halling's tall frame is folded up in front of his tent; he stares into the heart of a small fire. I draw near him slowly, noisily, giving him time to note my approach and opportunity to turn me away. But instead he looks up and smiles a weary, nervous smile, and motions for me to join him.

"Is all well?" I ask as I sit at his side.

"Hmm? Oh, yes." He scratches his beard absently. "I just put him back down… couldn't get back to sleep myself, though, so I thought I would come out here."

I nod, relieved. "And you have enough food, clothing, medicine—"

He surprises me by chuckling. "We have all we need and more. I could hardly have imagined such generosity, and I grew up surrounded by it. It is… it is a comfort, Teyla, to know that Jinto will also grow up surrounded by this love, and by the grace of the Ancestors want for nothing. Except…"

_Except_.

I bow my head, both grieving and unwilling to look Halling's grief directly in the face.

"Except his mother," Halling finishes at last, the final word strained. "I wanted to… to thank you, by the way, I just never… I wanted to thank you for singing at the ceremony. It was all so… beautiful. Especially your voice. I know that Fielle heard it, and that the Ancestors heard it too."

"It was an honor," I answer softly, head still down. "I only wish that it had not come to pass."

"If I hadn't been fool enough leave her—"

There is an edge to Halling's voice now, a whetstone of anger and self-recrimination sharpening his words. I look up instantly and reach out to touch his tightly-clenched fist. "It was what she asked you to do."

"I could have ignored her."

"But it made sense. Halling, your son was only just born. The Wraith were coming in over the trees. What would else you have done?"

Heat snaps in his eyes, or maybe it is only the reflection of the fire. "I would have stayed with her, of course. I could have stopped the blood, or slowed it at least."

"And if the Wraith found you?"

"I could have fought them! Like you did."

I sigh and purse my lips. The story that Toran brought with him from Haven, of that day in the market square, has been more trouble than I could have believed. Surprisingly, no one doubted that I had battled a Wraith and lived. What they would not accept was that my victory had as much to do with luck – or the Providence of the Ancestors – as talent or skill.

Halling, for all his appearances, is no great warrior. Like his father he is a peaceable man, but his father was killed by the Wraith because he did not want to believe they had come.

Fielle was not killed by the Wraith. We believe that by the time they entered her tent she was already dead from the blood loss and trauma of Jinto's birth. There were none of the obscene marks on her skin, and she appeared to have passed beyond in peace.

I hope that the ring ceremony was enough to convey her on, to guide her onto the path of the Ancestors, but I fear she lingers, watching worriedly over her son and Halling. From the moment they fell in love, Fielle never quite believed that he could get along without her.

I leave my seat, kneeling down in front of Halling with what I hope is compassion and respect – not pity – in my eyes. I place my hands on his shoulders and lower my head, and after a moment of hesitation he does the same. His forehead touches mine, and before I close my eyes I can see his breath steaming in the cold air.

Like an embrace, this gesture has many meanings which have changed and evolved over the generations and depend greatly on context and relationships.

There is the traditional _for the memory of the Ancestors reside in each of us; their strength is mine, and so it is yours_.

There is _I love you and I would rather die than see anything happen to you._

There is _you are my friend and I care for you deeply._

I don't know which meaning Halling takes away with him when we part, but I believe he knows how I feel.

"You will be a good father," I tell him.

He smiles at me. "And you will be a great leader."

The other source of light in the quiet camp comes from Charin's tent. I have never had to ask her permission to enter, but now I hover uncertainly by the door until she calls out, "Child, what are you waiting for? A formal invitation?"

I laugh and step inside, where the air is warm and filled with the smells of food and drink. Charin is already dressed for the day in a heavy gown and sturdy overcoat, although her silver hair has not yet been taken out of its braids. I take a seat near the table where she works. "How long have you been up and about?"

"Long enough," she replies, stirring a large pot of rice porridge. "I find that the older I get, the less sleep I require. It must be the Ancestors' way of telling me not to doze away my life."

"When have you ever done _that_?"

"I too was once a young wastrel." Charin looks up from her pot and winks at me. "And this begs the question, Teyla: why aren't you warm in your bed?"

I remember Toran, sleeping by himself back in that same warm bed, and feel strangely guilty. I have not been spending my nights with him for so long that his presence feels natural, although it is certainly welcome. After Fielle's death, following so soon after the loss of my small family, colluding with a Wraith attack that left every survivor shaken to the bone, I had needed someone who could help me carry my burden.

Toran is that person, and I am fiercely grateful to him. I can still not honestly claim that I love him, but I suspect that one day I might.

"I had a dream," I tell Charin. "I could not get back to sleep."

"The Wraith?"

I nod slowly. "I was in their lair. There were people trapped, surrounding me, begging for my help. It was terrible. And yet…"

"Yes?" Charin pours hot water into a tin.

"I do not know." I cross my arms, frustrated with my inability to explain. "It was terrible, and yet it was not the _most_ terrible. There was something about it that made me hope." I have a sudden flash of memory: the man standing in the corridor, my relief at his presence and the simultaneous realization that he was my responsibility. The Wraith master, angry and confused. I sit up a little straighter. "A peculiar kind of hope, perhaps, but then some might think that we live a peculiar kind of life."

Charin smiles as she hands me my tea; I feel a brief pang of guilt for sharing this ritual with her instead of Toran, as I told him I would, but there will be many mornings to come, the Ancestors willing. We sip at our steaming drinks in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the camp slowly coming to life beyond the tent walls.

Suddenly I find myself saying "Halling told me that I'll make a good leader."

Charin pauses with her cup halfway to her lips. "And you doubt him?"

Her tone is lightly mocking. Charin explained to me once that living a long life, as she has, is not the same thing as living a full life, and that to live a full life you must be able to laugh at yourself and the world around you. I still find this notion perplexing. There is so little to laugh about. Yet Charin maintains that dry, weathered humor I have known all my life, and I love her dearly for it. "It is not something I ever asked for."

"Maybe that's why they all think you are so well suited for it. You know our history, Teyla, and the history of some other worlds. Those who crave power over others are never able to lead in the true sense of the word. Tagan knew that, too. You want what is best for all of us, do you not?"

"Of course," I say, exasperated. "And that is why I'm against this idea. I am too young. Too inexperienced. And I am not my father."

Charin stares down into her tea for a moment before rising, moving to her porridge and checking its progress. "You are not Tagan. This is true. But you are very much your father's daughter, Teyla, and you have experiences… abilities that are present in you that can be found nowhere else on Athos."

"So that is it? Halling and others want me to lead because I can sometimes… sense the Wraith?" This angers me for reasons that I cannot fully grasp; I feel cheated, ashamed.

Perhaps Charin senses this. "It is not an evil mark, Teyla, this thing you can do. It is an asset… a gift from the Ancestors themselves. It does not make you who you are, but it enhances what you can do. Your father knew this. He was reluctant to lead, as well."

I look up, interested despite myself and despite what I know Charin is trying to do. "I heard Lada mention that once."

"He came to live among us and there were those who thought he could save us from our hard lives the same way he saved your mother. He feared that he would never be able to live up to that expectation, and that one day all of us would come to hate him for it. That _she_ would come to hate him for it."

I purse my lips. "Maybe that is the problem, then. Nobody expects me to be a savior. That was… that was someone else's role, not mine. The best thing I can do for them is give warning. Help them hide. Keep them alive."

Charin seems genuinely surprised by my displeased tone. "Teyla," she says slowly, as though I am young again and she is teaching me my letters, "keeping the people you love alive is no small thing."

Sighing, I shake my head. "No. It is not. But it is also not enough, Charin. I do not know how else to explain it… it's simply just not enough."

We speak no further of the matter, perhaps because we sense we have come to an impasse, or perhaps because Charin knows that things will happen at their own time. We take our tea outside to stand in the company of Athos and watch as the sun rises over the mountaintops. As Toran puts his arm around my shoulders I find myself looking towards the old city across the water, barely visible through the fog. It is said that during the time of Charin and Meleth's parents a group of brave Athosians ventured into the city of the Ancestors in the hope of learning more about them, or even discovering some means of communication. They were warned against this act, of course, for as long as Athosians can remember the city has been a forbidden place. It was said, even then, that treading upon such sacred ground would bring the Wraith down upon us.

Maybe it is the truth, or maybe that band of explorers was simply unlucky. Whatever the case, the last Great Awakening began that day. Charin says that my great-aunt, the last to have the gift, knew in advance of the attack, and that many were able to survive the culling by hiding in the old caves.

The group of adventurers was never seen again. Perhaps they were transported to the realm of the Ancestors, or perhaps they were devoured by the Wraith.

We have lived in fear for so long.

I lean into Toran's embrace.

It is simply not enough.

The days and seasons and years have long since blurred together. I mark the passing of time now by how much older Jinto is, and how long Halling's hair has gotten, and how slowly Charin moves and how many of his yearly trips Toran has made back to Haven.

He goes back for a few days each autumn – Haven's autumn, our summer – to visit his sister and his niece. Alma, he reports, has found another man and is blissfully happy, and small daughter Lucia is thriving in their household as well. Then he comes back with wonderful things: clothing, blankets, building materials, fruits and vegetables that are found nowhere else in the galaxy, smiling and laughing at the self-serving rush to greet him. Afterwards I imagine that he seems a little quieter, a little wistful, but maybe I am only imagining it after all.

I am proud that he calls himself Athosian. Havenites acknowledge the existence of the Ancestors but do not share our reverence for them, and at the beginning I had worried that Toran's disparate upbringing would mark him as different and be a source of disharmony. But instead he listened eagerly to the tales of the Ancestors, the Fathers of Light, the Old Ones, no matter if the stories were told by elder or peer or child. He joined in with our morning rituals from the first day. He and Halling became good friends. He seemed to bask in the spirit of Athos itself.

"I can't explain it," he told me once as we lay happily in bed. "It's a closeness and a kinship I never felt on Haven, not even with my own family. I like the idea of the Ancestors waiting to bring us home, safe, to a place where there is no threat from the Wraith or anyone else. That this is only the trial we have to undergo to reach that kind of serenity… to go onto the next journey."

Things were not always so pleasant, I am afraid. A good part of the reason he and Halling became fast friends was because there were times Toran and I could not peacefully cohabitate. It was little things. Stupid things, as it is with all men and women. Some nights I would only push my bed away from his, or he from mine. Some nights he stalked off to Halling's tent while I paced from wall to wall. Some nights I wondered if he would decide to go back to Haven, for good.

To this day, the biggest source of contention is over the future of Athos.

The future is never something my people have planned extensively for… at least not past the next few seasons. During the years since Fielle's death I have thought a great deal about the years and decades and centuries that spread out before us.

If I am to lead, what will my legacy be? Someone who helped her people run and hide and stay alive?

Charin believes that this is indeed a noble aspiration. So does Toran.

I expect such an attitude from Charin. She only wants the people she loves to be safe. She has lived on Athos her entire life. But Toran…

He saw me fight the Wraith.

He knows it can be done.

I believe, that with some luck, we might someday fight them and survive. This day is far in the future, of course, generations from now. Jinto's grandchildren might have the technology, ability and inclination to fight for their lives, if we start now.

Toran does not agree.

I don't understand why. We seem never to reach that part of the argument – he leaves, or I do. Perhaps he is so invested in the Athosian way of life that he can not bear the thought of it changing to something more martial. Maybe he simply does not believe that the Wraith can be defeated by anyone, ever, because if they could why didn't the Ancestors strike them down long ago?

Or maybe he does not think I can do it.

This final possibility hurts the most, so naturally I am drawn to it.

"Father…" begins Jinto.

Halling shushes him.

I reach out in the direction of Jinto's voice and put my hand on his. Jinto is afraid of the dark – not the night, because in all but the darkest sky there is starlight and moonlight and the familiar space of the forest around you. But now we sit in silence in the deepest part of the ancient caves with not a single torch to hold against the darkness, and it is absolute.

"It will be okay," comes a small, barely audible whisper. Wex, Jinto's cousin and friend, a boy orphaned by the Wraith even before he could walk. _It will be okay_. I hold onto the child's statement like a promise.

I must have sensed the Wraith early this time, perhaps to make up for the instances when I was too late to do any good. There were no hunting or fishing parties out, no traders away through the ring. We were all there, and I led us all to the caves. Everyone is here, crouching in the dirt, families huddled, women wrapped in the arms of their men, listening to the muffled sounds of the Wraith ships cutting the sky.

Someone reaches out tentatively and strokes my hair. Toran. We were having a fight when the sense came upon me, and we had no time to talk after that. I know there is much he wishes to say to me.

If the Wraith do not find us, we will all live. It will have been the first time in many generations that our people have survived a culling without a single casualty.

If the Wraith do find us, our people will be no more, and inhabitants on other planets will tell their children of the disappearance of the Athosians. All of them.

Forever.

I am pulling on my shirt when I hear a sudden flurry of activity outside my tent. I pause, listening to the voices and extending my inner senses for danger, but there is none. The voices outside are raised and delighted and I resume dressing, slower now. This can only mean one thing.

Toran enters my tent a few minutes later, smiling, but that smile soon melts away. "Hello."

"Hello," I say coolly, fastening my belt and knife-sheath with great care and attention to detail. "How is your sister?"

He squirms at my tone. Ancestors help me, but sometimes I enjoy seeing him squirm. "She is well. So is Lucia. The other children as well."

"Hmm." I step into my boots. "I thought someone might have been ill, or in danger. You were gone a great deal longer than I expected."

Now he looks nervous. He is still carrying his pack, I realize, but I do not invite him to put it down and sit. I do not want to have this conversation at all, but if I must I will have it standing up, and then I will go about my business. After all, I always knew this day would come. "Tell me."

Toran draws himself up to his full height and looks at me directly. "There is a girl Alma introduced me to. Her name is Epione. We spent some time together. She wants to marry me."

"Does she?"

"She is a good person," he says with surprising calm. I feel that he has rehearsed this already, perhaps with Epione's help. "She says she loves me. She wants to have a family. Children."

I have to look away. This has forever been a barrier between us. Children. "What do you want, Toran?"

He shifts as if to take a half-step forward, but then falls back. "I could love her if I tried. The problem is… I don't want to. I did not realize it until I was standing there with her, but… I still love you, Teyla."

I look back. His gaze is firm. Unwavering. It has been a long time since he has said that to me. Years since we shared a bed.

"If you don't think there is any chance for us… I will abide by that. I will go back to Haven. I will marry Epione. But if you want me to stay… if you could care for me as I have cared for you from the moment I saw you…"

He does not finish his sentence. He does not need to. It is a cruel thing he is doing, making me choose. Making our future my decision. Maybe I should be thankful that he is giving me the power, but I never wanted power to begin with.

Do I love him? I do not know. All I know is that he is Toran, and he has been part of my life, for good or ill, for so long that I can barely imagine existing without him. If he stays he will be unhappy. I want him to be happy. Just not on Haven. Not as some woman's husband.

"Come eat with us," I say at last. "I will after the sunrise prayer."

He smiles at me, a real and warm smile, and then swings his pack down off his shoulder. "I got you something," he says, and takes out a long, narrow bundle wrapped in cloth. "I copied yours as best I could," he says, handling me the parcel, "but it turned out the craftsman had seen something like them before. No matter what you decide… they are a gift, Teyla."

Cautiously I fold back the cloth, expecting something strange and fragile. Instead I find a pair of fighting staves within, so very similar to the ones Meleth gave to me, strong and smooth and beautiful.

"I know I never showed much aptitude," Toran continues. "But there are others. Jinto, perhaps, or Wex, or one of the other children. This way you can teach them."

I want to thank him by throwing my arms around him, laughing, holding my present up to the firelight and exclaiming in delighted tones, but I do not. He would interpret it as my answer, and I have no answer to give. But I return his smile and hold the bundle against my chest. "They are beautiful. Thank you."

He beams. "Now, come eat. The tea is ready and I brought some wonderful foods back as well. There might be some left if we hurry."

"Is Halling coming?"

"Yes, as soon as he found the boys. They ran off again, probably just hiding somewhere near by. Don't worry. I have something special for him. Come on, Teyla," he says in that charming, boyish tone, "let's go!"

We go.

I find I have no appetite, but I cannot bring myself to rise even though the sun will be up soon and there is much to do. I remain seated, speaking with Juna and Eammon and others from their family, trying to ignore the fact that Toran has stayed as well. We are both trying to act merry and relaxed, but I can tell from the look in Juna's blue eyes that we are fooling no one.

I pick at my food as Loris places a fresh kettle on the table, wondering how Toran will take what I tell him. I also wonder what I am going to tell him.

A merciful interruption comes in the sound of a friendly voice. "It's Halling. I bring men from away."

"Enter," I say quickly, overcome with relief. Visitors! Well, then, certainly there will be no time at all for discussions of an intimate nature.

I rise to my feet as Halling ducks in, followed by three men in almost identical clothing, and Toran stands as well, as though he would like to bar their entrance. There is a knife in one hand. I shoot him a warning look, but he does not sit.

The men say nothing, and they appear extremely somber. I look at the machines they hold in their hands and know that they are weapons, and I stop worrying about Toran. I worry about these strangers instead.

"These men wish to trade," says Halling quietly, and I can hear the skepticism in his voice.

"Ah," says the man in the middle, taking some strange device off his head and smoothing down his hair. He smiles uncertainly. "It's nice to meet you."

It is his voice that catches my attention first, a mild and almost unassuming voice, and then I look at his face. It is somehow familiar to me, and I begin to wonder if perhaps I have seen him somewhere before.

Maybe he has seen me.

"I am Teyla Emmagan," I tell him. And, in case our two people met only long ago, I mention my father's name as well.

The man in the middle does not answer; instead, the older one to my right speaks in a brisk and businesslike manner. "Colonel Marshall Sumner," he says, apparently naming himself. "Major Sheppard." The man in the middle attempts another smile. "Lieutenant Ford." To my left, the youngest simply nods, all seriousness. "We have very few specific needs."

There is something about Marshall Sumner that makes me bristle… something that makes me wonder if he would not simply take what he wanted and leave without reciprocation. I am not the only one with this sense; behind me, I can almost hear Toran's teeth grinding together. "We do not trade with strangers," I say quickly, certain now that these people have never come into contact with Athosians.

Sumner does not protest directly, but there is a challenge in his words. "Is that a fact?"

Before I can answer, the man in the middle – Sheppard – interjects. "Well then, we'll just have to… we'll have to get to know each other. Me, I like Ferris wheels, college football, anything that goes more than 200 miles per hour…"

This is all meaningless to me. I look to Halling for clarification and he shrugs.

I do not quite miss a muttered conversation between the three visitors. I hear Sumner's voice: "…rather not waste the time…"

Although this man seems to be the leader, I cannot quite bring myself to address him as such. I look at Sheppard instead, trying not to see, out of the corner of my eye, Toran tapping the blade of his knife restlessly against his leg. "Each morning before dawn our people drink a stout tea to brace us for the coming day. Will you join us?"

Sumner looks disinclined, but Sheppard steps forward and smiles. "I love a good cup of tea. Now there's another thing you know about me." He glances back at his leader, and then at me again. "We're practically friends already."

I look up into his face, and I smile as well, and then I show him to a spot at the table.

I remember now where I have seen him.

"We should send them away," says Toran.

"They have done nothing to deserve such treatment," I counter, watching them from between the gap in the door. The men are talking, but soon they will surely be on their way.

"Of course they have," says Toran, sitting down heavily. "You heard them. They are going to the City of the Ancestors. They will bring the Wraith—"

"We do not know that."

Toran sulks. He has a bad habit of doing this when I will not agree with him.

To my surprise, Sheppard does not go with the others. Reentering the tent, he looks somehow defeated, as though he has also lost an argument. "Well," he says, "I guess it's just you and me."

At my back, Toran stands. He is not a threatening man, but I can tell from Sheppard's reaction that he has not missed his meaning. "And… him."

I nod in the direction that Sumner took. "Your leader looks through me as though I am not there," I observe, wondering if Sheppard will hear the unspoken question.

In fact, he speaks it. "Do I?"

I search his face again. With every passing moment I am surer that I recognize him, that he was the man in my dream, on the Wraith ship. I wish he would say my name. I would know for certain then. "No," I reply, aware of the uncomfortable silence, aware of Toran behind me and the impossibility of this man in front of me. "You truly cannot return to your world?"

"No," he says simply, with genuine regret in his eyes.

"Then," I tell him, "There is something you should see."

Toran finds me before we leave. He takes me by the wrist and draws me away from Sheppard, who follows us with his eyes. We do not go far, and I am certain that he hears at least some of what we say.

"Teyla, what are you doing?"

I pull out of Toran's grasp. "He has to know. He has to be prepared."

"But going off with him, all the way to the caves… it is not safe!"

There is no point in explaining to Toran that Sheppard can be trusted, even if Sumner cannot and the others in his party are an unknown quantity. Toran has always put great stock in my ability to sense the Wraith, but I fear he would not believe in prophetic dreams. "I can take care of myself. Trust me."

"I trust _you_," says Toran. He then looks at Sheppard, and the unspoken meaning is clear.

Sheppard and I leave for the caves.

The next time I see my home, it will be on fire.

The next time I see Toran, it will be in a Wraith cell, and he will never see home again.

There is a story among our people that has been told, says Charin, since anyone living can remember, of the man that will save us from the Wraith. He will come from darkness, says the story, and his coming will be marked with pain and death. But he will have a connection to the Ancestors like no other, and he will slay each Wraith until not one remains to wake from their long sleep.

They are awake now. All of them. And they are coming.

It is just a story.

And yet, I wonder.

"Oh. Sorry."

He apologizes when I notice him standing in the doorway, and I wonder how long he has been there, watching me go through the forms. There is something in his hand – a piece of the Ancestors' technology that allows one to seek out other living beings. I wonder if he's been scouting the city for threats again, but he is not dressed in his military gear and he carries no weapon.

"This room was already cleared by Sergeant Bates' team," I say, just in case. "They deemed there was nothing dangerous here." It is, in fact, an empty room, nothing spectacular except for the beautiful colored glass present throughout the city.

"Yeah, I know." He pockets the palm-sized object. "I was just coming to check it out, actually. I thought we could maybe use it as a gym, but I guess you had the same idea." He pauses, then gestures to the staves in my hands. "What was that you were doing just now? If you don't mind me asking."

"I do not." I spin the stave in my right hand with practiced ease, enjoying the sound it makes as it cuts the air and the feel of the smooth wood against my palm and fingers. Sheppard looks impressed, and I transition into one of the more complex fighting forms. I am showing off, and I know it. "It is something I have been taught since I was a girl."

"It is a…" He gestures, searching for a word. "An Athosian thing?"

Smiling, I hand him one of the staves for closer inspection. "I would like it to be. Unfortunately it has not exactly caught on. I have not had a proper sparring partner since the death of my instructor some years ago." Not counting the Wraith on Haven, at least, but I do not feel up to broaching that tale.

Toran is dead. Sheppard saw him in the chambers of the Wraith Queen.

I have lost so many loved ones to them throughout my lifetime that the cynic inside me wonders _what is one more?_

But he was Toran. And if I had only told him that I did not love him, he might have left that very morning, before Sheppard came. Before the Wraith came.

Oblivious, Sheppard twists the stave awkwardly in his hands, obviously trying to mimic my earlier motions. Instead he looks like he is trying to swat an insect out of the air. I laugh despite myself; the stave falls out of his hand and lands with a clatter on the floor.

Sheppard rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Yeah. Well. Obviously I need a formal lesson first. And even then you could probably still kick my ass."

I stop laughing. "You mean… but you have your…" I try to remember part of Lieutenant Ford's lengthy and enthusiastic description. "Your automatic weapons."

He shrugs. "Guns jam. Or you can lose them – get them taken away. That's why they teach us hand-to-hand also. That way even with an improvised weapon, or just with your own bare hands, you at least have a fighting chance."

Sheppard picks up the stave and I reach for my bag, retrieved unharmed from the remains of the camp following our rescue. Toran's gift is inside.

All I have wanted for my people is a fighting chance. Not to simply scratch out a half-existence under the yoke of the Wraith. Not to run and hide in the hopes of living to run and hide another day. Maybe this desire comes from the blood of my father's people, or my mother's passion, or my brother's soul.

Perhaps Sheppard and the others from his world have made things worse, as he claims. Perhaps being here in the City of the Ancestors is a mistake, as Halling wonders aloud. It does not matter. Standing with them is the only way to stay safe now.

And I have my responsibilities to think of as well.

"I will teach you," I tell Sheppard. "Under two conditions."

"Uh-oh," he says, deadpan. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"One," I continue. "You must promise to _practice_."

He makes a face, but nods. "Fine. I promise. What's number two?"

I pick up my bag and cross the room to him, reaching out for the stave he still holds. "Our first trip as a team will be to a world called Haven. They have food, metals and other materials Dr. Weir may find desirable." I nod at the stave. "I understand there is also a man there who can make you your own set."

And there are people there I must see. Things I must tell them.

A woman named Alma. A girl named Epione.

"It's a deal," says Sheppard. He lets me take hold on the stave, but does not let go immediately.

We stand there for a moment, looking at each other.

"I had a dream about you," I say suddenly.

Sheppard grins. "Wow. I must have made a pretty good impression."

I smile, but shake my head. There is no point in explaining. Things will come to pass in their own time.

I know, because there is a story.


End file.
